1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14the best of all things to an end must come
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